"I'm going to expose the whole thing in the evening papers; I examined a case yesterday--a man called Wain--and was convinced there was nothing wrong with him. He was really pigmented. And what is it but mere pigmentation?" He passed his hand over his brow and frowned. "Yes, yes," he continued, "that's what it is--a colossal joke. We've all been taken in by it--everyone except me." He sat down by the breakfast table suddenly and once more passed his hand over his brow. "What was I saying?" he asked. Sarakoff and I were now watching him intently. "That the Blue Disease was a joke," I said. "Ah, yes--a joke." He looked up at Sarakoff and stared for a moment. "Do you know," he said, "I believe it really is a joke." An expression of intense solemnity came over his face, and he sat motionless gazing in front of him with unblinking eyes. I crossed to where he sat and peered at his face. "I thought so," I remarked. "You've got it too." "Got what?" "The Blue Disease. I suppose you caught it from Wain, as we did." I picked up one of his hands and pointed to the faintly-tinted fingernails. Dr. Symington-Tearle stared at them with an air of such child-like simplicity and gravity that Sarakoff and I broke into loud laughter. The humour of the situation passed with a peculiar suddenness and we ceased laughing abruptly. I sat down at the table, and for some time the three of us gazed at one another and said nothing. The spirit-lamp that heated the silver dish of bacon upon the table spurted at intervals and I saw Symington-Tearle stare at it in faint surprise. "Does it sound very loud?" asked Sarakoff at length. "Extraordinarily loud. And upon my soul your voice nearly deafens me." "It will pass," I said. "One gets adjusted to the extreme sensitiveness in a short time. How do you feel?" "I feel," said Symington-Tearle slowly, "as if I were newly constructed from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. After a Turkish bath and twenty minutes' massage I've experienced a little of the feeling." He stared at Sarakoff, then at me, and finally at the spirit lamp. We must have presented an odd spectacle. For there we sat, three men who, under ordinary circumstances, were extremely busy and active, lolling round the unfinished breakfast table while the hands of the clock travelled relentlessly onward. Relentlessly? That was scarcely correct. To me, owing to some mysterious change that I cannot explain, the clock had ceased to be a tyrannous and hateful monster. I did not care how fast it went or to what hour it pointed. Time was no longer precious, any more than the sand of the sea is precious. "Aren't you going to have any breakfast?" asked Symington-Tearle. "I'm not in the least hurry," replied Sarakoff. "I think I'll take a sip of coffee. Are you hungry, Harden?" "No. I don't want anything save coffee. But I'm in no hurry."